


interregnum

by notavodkashot



Series: all of me and all of you sit down quietly in the dark [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, CorNyx Week 2019, Living Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Political Shenanigans, Shifters, Slow Burn, Timeskip during the main fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: “When this is over, you three should talk about it, iron out the details,” the King said, and it was really upsetting, Nyx thought, how encouraging and soft he sounded, how unlike the monster he now knew he was, bottomless pit of magic turned man. “If, of course, you’re interested.”Set during the year-long timeskip between the end of Act 1 and the start of Act 2, inthe nature of the beast. Follows Cor and Nyx and their ridiculous not-relationship shenanigans as they enter the service of the certified madwoman they call Queen.





	1. Day 1 "I'll bring you coffee."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for CorNyx Week 2019! The title of each chapter corresponds to the prompt used. This will make absolutely no sense if you're not familiar with the puppyverse. Sorry about that.

Nyx liked coffee. 

Coffee, in Cor’s humble opinion, was bitter black water sludge and infinitely inferior to tea. He was well aware it was probably because he’d learned to enjoy tea from the Thicket Witch, who was kind and witty and not very easily impressed, and he’d learned to tolerate coffee from Lucius’ rather desperate attempts at sobering up. But his preferences on the matter were inconsequential, Nyx liked coffee. 

Nyx drank tea without complaint, and he’d even learned to make at least a vaguely passable morning tea, by now, after spending so long living with Cor. But when they were out and about, Nyx would stop by one of the million coffee shops across the city and buy himself a coffee. It wasn’t even just coffee, either. It was usually frozen and whipped and flavored with far too many things for even Cor’s nose to guess, though Nyx insisted on calling it coffee, and enjoying it. 

Cor kept his thoughts on this to himself, because he recognized the fact he didn’t have anything kind to say. 

He kept a lot of his thoughts to himself, really, since Nyx moved into the cabin, because he was afraid voicing any of them would make Nyx realize how long he’d been there, and that perhaps he should move on. That he should stop trying his best to indulge the awkward routines of Cor’s home and find his own. He’d promised to stay, and Cor believed him, but that didn’t mean he’d stay right where he was. Staying could very well mean finding his own place and building his own life in Insomnia, instead of staying on to patch up the holes in Cor’s. 

The thing was, and Cor felt… bad about it, obviously, but the thing was… Cor didn’t want him to go. 

Nyx had spent so long with him by now, that his smell was ingrained into the cabin by now. It was easier to navigate Insomnia and its cacophony of smells and sounds, when Nyx was there. It was comfortable, the silences and their chats and the fact Nyx smiled at him when he felt too stifled in his human form and never scolded him for stretching out inside his bones. They sat on the steps of the cabin and drank tea while watching the sun set every night. Nyx cooked food that was sweet and spicy and filling, and the scent of it didn’t give Cor a migraine. 

Cor didn’t want him to go. And it was eminently selfish and he knew it, so he could never let Nyx know how desperately he needed him to stay. 

Instead, he did his best to keep Nyx happy. He paid attention to the details, the things he liked, the things he enjoyed. Dozens of strange, new things found their way into Cor’s weekly grocery shopping, mostly to make sure Nyx would need only to stretch a hand and find them, instead of ask for them. He wasn’t very good at cooking and Nyx didn’t really let him try, so he could at least learn the things Nyx liked to buy, instead of making. He made polite conversation with sellers of all kinds, from stalls to restaurants to specific coffee shops, because those were the ones Nyx liked. He wouldn’t have, for himself, and he was keenly aware of it. He wouldn’t go through all that trouble, but Nyx was worth it. 

It was worth the look on Nyx’s face when he came into the cabin or the office, with just the thing he was craving. It made Cor feel good, useful, to see that particular smile whenever he brought Nyx exactly what he’d been thinking about. 

Then they would sit around the stupid, monstrous desk in his office, and enjoy their meal while chatting up about either nothing at all, or the nuanced details of whatever task Monica had thrown at them – she threw it at Cor, to be honest, and he tried, he really did, but Nyx was infinitely better at people than he was, and by this point Monica was resigned to the fact Cor saw no reason not to tell Nyx everything when he asked for help, so she just briefed and debriefed them both, together – and it was _nice_. 

It was nice. 

Cor didn’t remember the last time his life had been _nice_. 

Even his fondest memories of Mors were not nice, he wasn’t delusional enough to cross that line. 

But this? Living with Nyx and working with Nyx and orbiting the space around Nyx, consciously aware of how little it hurt to do it? It was very nice. Even after the glorious disaster that was the Adamantoise. Even after how much that hurt – but it was a different kind of hurt, it hurt but it was just skin deep, it didn’t go deeper and make him want to die – Regis was fine and Nyx promised to stay, and it was… it was okay. It was good. 

Then, one day, as Cor made his way back up to his office in the Citadel, carrying Nyx’s latest bizarre take on coffee and a bag of takeout for lunch, he walked into the room and found Nyx was not alone in it. He was instantly assaulted by the angry, acrid scent of Nyx’s fury, as he stared at the young man standing smack in the middle of the office. 

“The Queen would speak with you,” he said, grey eyes stormy and expression smug. “Both of you.” 

Cor took in the annoyed look on Nyx’s face, and then sighed. He walked over the desk and carefully placed down his cargo. Then he reached a hand and tugged at Nyx’s arm, because he had that look on his face that meant the fury was turning visceral, and no good things came from that. 

“Lead the way,” Cor said, and tugged again at Nyx, pulling him close, when the young man – Galahdian, by his scent, though the storm was buried deep beneath a myriad of smells and it took Cor a good moment to figure it out – sneered and caused Nyx to twitch with the intent to lounge, “we’re ready.” 

The man gave them a very pitying look. 

“You’re really not,” he said, shaking his head, “but then no one is, so don’t take it personally.” 

Nyx shifted in Cor’s hold, until he was holding his hand, fingers entwined with his, clutching tight enough to try and keep the coeurl at bay. 

Cor thought nothing of it, and slowly, purposefully, they followed their guide out of the office and into the unknown. 

* * *

“I don’t need babysitting,” the Queen said, one arm hooked on the backrest of her chair as she studied them both, expression unamused. 

She reached a hand to grab an apple from an ornamental bowl someone with far more ambitious design ideals than her had left at the center of the desk, as if to imply the desk itself was mere ornamentation and not meant to have any real work done on it. Nyx entertained the thought whoever had decorated the Queen’s study did not, in fact, know the Queen very well. 

But then, as he watched her take a bite off the apple, he supposed he couldn’t judge, he didn’t know her at all himself. 

“You’re the Queen,” Cor muttered, staring at her with that blank look of his that meant he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, but that he was going to plunge ahead regardless. “Queens need guards, not babysitters.” 

Cor, Nyx thought despondently, he knew more than well enough. 

“Sweetheart, you’re adorable,” the Queen replied, “and the only reason you’re not a rug decorating the stairs up Regis’ gaudy monstrosity of a throne is because he loves you more than life itself. Do not make me reconsider my stance on mounting your head on the nearest wall.” Then she looked at Nyx in the eye, her own blue ones darkened with scattered flecks of dark purple, and said: “Sit.” 

Nyx, who had not realized he’d stood up at some point, found himself reflexively sitting down with a little _oof_. 

“You are the Queen,” Cor repeated, frowning. 

He was not fazed by the threat – that had been a threat, and somewhere under his sternum, Nyx tried to grasp the visceral rage trying to unfurl because of it, and which was also being smothered by the glimmer of power in the Queen’s eyes, clutching at his neck like a leash – but also not sure how to communicate exactly what he was trying to say. That happened a lot, with Cor. Nyx was good at reading in between the lines and often the de facto translator when the need arose. The problem was that this time Nyx wasn’t sure what Cor was trying to get at, and given the Queen’s expression, terrible things were due their way, if they didn’t figure it out before she finished her apple. 

“Cor,” Nyx said, in his best conciliatory tone, “use your words.” 

“Sometime today, if you please,” the Queen added, one eyebrow arched expectantly. 

Cor’s lips thinned into a fine, pale line, as he frowned at them both. Then he sighed, and the moment passed. 

“Regis’ hold on the throne is a lot more precarious than he’s willing to admit,” Cor said, licking his lips as he hunched over, defensive. “He probably can’t admit it’s that precarious, lest he loses it all together. You are his Queen, but you’re not the Queen they wanted him to have. Your son is not the Prince they were hoping to have.” 

“Well, too fucking bad, it’s what they’ve got,” the Queen retorted, punctuating the statement by another almost savage bite off the apple. “They can deal with it.” 

“They will,” Cor said, expression haunted, “the same way they dealt with Mors, when he became untenable.” 

“They will try,” the Queen replied, voice soft and calm and as terrifying as silence the instant before the howling storm picked up. It made hair stand on end all along the back of Nyx’s neck. “But it won’t work out the way they hope for. Their King isn’t willing to die for them, if nothing else because I will kill him with my bare hands for even entertaining the thought.” 

“Do you think Mors _wanted_ to die?” Cor snapped back, eyes narrowed and jaw set. “Do you think he was just a willing victim of slaughter?” 

“Of course he was,” the Queen interrupted, before he could really get the tirade going. “Men came for him, and he didn’t confront them with fire and brimstone when he had the chance.” 

“He didn’t _have_ a chance,” Cor snarled, with that same viciousness that always came to him, almost on reflex, whenever the topic of the old King came up. “He didn’t have magic anymore!” 

“No,” the Queen said, lips twitching halfway. “He had _you_.” Cor shut his mouth so sharply Nyx half expected him to have bitten off half his tongue in the process. The Queen went on, relentless. “Didn’t he? He had you there, his willing little pet, ready to slaughter the entirety of the city if he asked. But he didn’t. He was old and tired and willing to end. Neither Regis nor me are ready to end.” 

Cor stared and stared and Nyx realized he would have turned already, lounged across the desk and torn out her throat with his teeth, but there was a leash around his neck, commanding him to sit. So he sat and watched as Cor sat back, hunched over, as if he’d never once considered the notion the old King let himself die before. He was now, it was clear, if nothing else by the expression on his face, as the cogs in his head realigned with the new information. 

The Queen finished her apple and threw it clear across the room into a small basket tucked into the far corner of the studio. 

“I don’t need babysitting,” she said, one eyebrow arched as she leaned against the backrest of the chair and waved a hand dismissively. “I do not need _guarding_. I do not give a single, solitary fuck about what tradition and protocol say consorts should be. I am not a doll to sit at Regis’ side when it’s convenient and then to be tucked away and protected because I’m considered a weakness to be exploited.” 

“Then what are you?” Nyx asked, somewhere between snide and tense, very much stuck on the chair he was sitting on and unable to do anything else but reach out and hold Cor’s hand while he processed the abrupt tilt she’d just given to his world view. “What do you want?” 

“I am the first Galahdian Queen Lucis has ever had,” she said, head tilted to the side, and smiled. It was not a comforting smile. “And I intend to make more than a few of them regret it dearly.” 

* * *

“You have a choice, you know.” 

Cor looked up from the books he was halfheartedly organizing into piles around the den, and blinked at Nyx. He was leaning on the little counter separating the corner of the room that served as a kitchen from the rest of the cabin. 

“You have a choice,” Nyx said, folding his arms on the counter and tilted his head to the side. “You don’t have to go along with this mess if you don’t want to. You can say no.” 

“Will you?” Cor asked, standing up straight. “Say no?” 

Nyx bit the inside of his lip, like he always did when he was nervous or tired or both. Then he turned away from Cor and went back to stirring the thick red stew he was making for dinner, the one that smelled of spices and sat warm in Cor’s belly for hours after they ate. 

“I can, you know?” Nyx said, very carefully not looking at him, reaching for the cabinet Cor had filled up with every tiny bottle of spices and powders Nyx had ever mentioned using, so far. “Say no. She’s not my Lady.” He sprinkled a pinch of something that made Cor’s nose itch before he stirred the pot and the entire smell changed all at once. “I don’t serve the ladies anymore. Any of them. That’s what it meant, when my sister let me stay. She can… she can _command_ me, with the magic she’s got left, but she didn’t. She asked. So I could say no. She’ll respect it, too, I reckon. There’s a reason so many of hers stayed and asked to be hers again. That kind of loyalty is earned, I suppose.” 

Cor placed the book in his hand on top of the nearest stack, even though it didn’t fit – it was a history book, and that stack was purely for photography collections Clarus’ wife insisted on gifting him by the dozen every year – and walked over to stand behind Nyx. 

“Nyx,” he began, and then stopped, unsure of where he was going with it. 

“I don’t care, either way,” Nyx admitted, head bowed and shoulders hunched as he studied his handiwork. “I can live with either choice, just fine. So I’ll just choose the same you do.” He licked his lips, and looked over his shoulder. “I just figured I’d remind you, anyway. That you have a choice. That you can say no, and it’ll be okay. I’ll stay either way.” 

Cor gave into the impulse, and curled himself along Nyx’s back, arms wrapped around his waist and face buried into the side of his neck. There was that spike, again, in Nyx’s scent. One he still hadn’t figured out the meaning of, but he supposed it couldn’t be too bad, because Nyx reached out with his free hand and placed it on top of Cor’s and did not move away from the impromptu hug. 

“All I’ve ever wanted was to serve,” Cor said, words muffled slightly into Nyx’s shoulder, almost apologetic. 

Nyx took his hand off Cor’s and reached back to tug at the hair at the nape of Cor’s neck. 

“Then we’ll serve,” he said, and clicked his tongue. “I guess you’re just destined to herd wet cats for the rest of your life, Cor.” 

Cor laughed softly, in reply, head bowed and lips twitching. He didn’t pull away. 

“I suppose I am.” 

In the morning, he promised himself, he’d bring Nyx coffee again. And the morning after, and the one after too. Until it was ingrained in their lives like Nyx’s cooking or Cor’s books. 

They’d be fine. 


	2. Day 2 "Both. Both is good." | Hands | Nyx babysitting Prompto

“But you can’t,” Monica said, hands on her hips, watching them methodically strip down Cor’s office and pack it into boxes along the one ugly ass painting Nyx was resigned to have hanging off the far side of the cabin, because Cor loved Mors even though Mors was basically the worst. “I mean-“ 

“The Queen commanded it,” Cor said placidly, not looking up from where he was slowly piling up books inside a box. 

“I’m sure you know by now… and if you don’t, you’re soon to learn and I’d honestly pay to watch you learn,” Nyx muttered, as he walked past her, carrying a box in his arms, “one does not argue with the Queen, Marshal.” 

“I can’t be the Marshal!” Monica snapped, though it sounded a touch unsure, before she pointed straight at Cor. “ _You’re_ the Marshal!” 

Cor gave her the same far off look he gave people who asked him things he hadn’t even know could be asked, and shrugged. 

“Not anymore.” 

* * *

It was hard, the first few excursions out into Lucis. It reminded Nyx of that first trip with Cor, when he’d sat in silence, perfectly outside the circle, looking in. Except he was now forcefully inside the circle, along with Nyx, because Aulea – she wasn’t the Queen anymore, not in his head, he couldn’t mentally yell at her properly, if he was stuck on her title, so Aulea it was – liked having them at hand, and the rest of the Galahdians with them were already part of the circle and well on their way to accepting their presence, for all they still chafed a bit about it. 

The Queensglaive, they had been called, before setting out into the world, because Aulea was literal like that. 

The Queen… Aulea was a lot, honestly. 

When she’d said she intended to rule in Lucis exactly the same way she’d ruled in Galahd, Nyx hadn’t been sure what to expect. His sister hadn’t ruled, exactly. She’d stayed in her temple and received visitors and advised any who sought out Judgment. Life in Anemoi had been peaceful and quiet and almost boring, really. 

Life in Aeolus had been vastly different, he was realizing. Life in Aeolus involved their Wise Woman roaming the island at her leisure, mediating on conflicts and sticking her nose in everything, every step of the way. And people loved her for it, fiercely. 

Nyx didn’t think the King’s court loved her at all, but the actual people out on the kingdom? The people in the farms and the small towns dotting the way from Insomnia to Lestallum to Caem, where the war was felt the hardest and which were still slowly trying to put their lives back in order? Oh, those loved her, definitely. They loved the fact she showed up with a few dozen hands to help rebuild or cull whatever monstrosity lurked in the sidelines, threatening their way of life. 

Most of their work had been carried out in Leide, so far, supporting the survivors of the Adamantoise debacle and helping people regroup and adapt to the new geography of the region. Couple fights, here and there, but mostly just serving as a face for order and someone to tell people what to do, because apparently Lucians were not very well versed on common sense. Nyx knew it was petty to think so, but then, that whole thing about the mainland and money and how ridiculously concerned over it they were came back to haunt him and reminded him of a truth he was becoming more and more prone to ignoring: mainlanders were weird, about _everything_. 

Nyx was somewhat depressed to realize that out of their whole merry band, he was the one with the best people skills, which meant he was the one who ran around de-escalating things as best he could, because otherwise everything would be on fire, pretty much always. _He_ was the sensible one. Him. Unironically. Selena was cackling at him somewhere in Galahd, he knew. 

And then, there was Cor. 

Cor did anything Aulea told him to do, often with a skeptical look on his face that never did translate to actually questioning his orders. He fought whatever she told him to fight, guarded whatever she told him to guard, and looked after whatever she told him to look after. Even if that whatever turned out to be children. Actually, now that Nyx thought about it a bit more, he realized two out of three times they were out there in Leide, Cor ended up as a very put upon playground for children whose parents were then free to yell at Nyx about whatever was inconveniencing them about the whole… newly magically created canyon on what used to be their backyard. 

“He needs a project,” Aulea told Nyx, the day she caught him staring at Cor patiently withstanding being climbed by humans the same way he used to withstand being climbed by coeurls, during the war. 

“A project,” Nyx deadpanned, rather than contemplate the fact that the last six weeks had already made him feel unfathomable distance from the relative normalcy of the war, because that was fucked up no matter how he tried to phrase it. 

“Yep,” Aulea replied, “something to get him out of the brooding cycle. Regis’ always been afraid of breaking the poor sod, but that’s only because he hates admitting sometimes you have to break a bone to reset it properly.” She paused, and then reached a hand to flick her fingers against Nyx’s forehead. “Down, boy.” 

Nyx swallowed back the snarl one breath at the time, left eye twitching slightly, and valiantly ignored the sharp tug of magic dragging the coeurl away from the foreground. 

“Right.” 

Aulea rolled her eyes as she leaned in to gather the papers on the table, shuffling them lightly. 

“On the bright side, so do you,” she went on, flipping the half-hearted braid over her shoulder onto her back as she smirked at Nyx’s sudden spluttering. “But that’s why we’re going to Meldacio over the weekend.” 

She walked out of the tent they’d turned into their makeshift headquarters without looking back. 

“Wait, _what_?” 

* * *

Come the weekend, Nyx found himself sitting in the backseat of a nondescript black car, with Aulea sitting shotgun and Prompto of all people sitting behind the wheel, sheepishly driving them along when Nyx pointed out he didn’t actually know how to drive a car. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Prompto said, as they crossed the massive bridge out into Cavaugh, “Ravus doesn’t have a license either.” 

“Whatever,” Nyx muttered sullenly, burying his face into another procedural manual Monica was gracious enough to share, so he could try and wrap his head around the sheer ludicrousness that was Lucian bureaucracy. “I take it you didn’t come along just to drive us around, though.” 

“Uh,” Prompto said eloquently, and then turned to look at Aulea with the careful, cautious look of a man trying to stick a hand into a coeurl’s den. 

“He’s here to get practical experience on hostile negotiations,” Aulea replied in his stead, snickering. “Because _he_ is Regis’ project,” she added, catching Nyx’s eye through the rearview mirror. 

Prompto made a nervous noise in the back of her throat and ducked his head. 

“ _Down_ , boy,” Aulea said, and didn’t even give him the chance to snarl first. 

Nyx hoped Cor’s weekend was going better than his was. 

* * *

During the war, it was Cor who decided where they went and what their targets were. More than once, Cor mentioned hunters as a deciding factor in his decisions as far as routes went. Back then, Nyx hadn’t really cared enough to question what he meant. Hunters brought to mind the hunter families back home, that spent all their lives specializing in hunting very specific prey to support their communities. Rationally, he knew that couldn’t be the case, because hunters back home were sensible and served an obvious purpose, and nothing at all in the mainland had any rhyme or reason he could grasp. But it had been just a word, something that didn’t really register because it didn’t _matter_. They had gone wherever Cor had told them to go and attacked whatever Cor told them to attack, and the fun was the journey not the details. 

Then, Nyx met Ezma Auburnbrie and suddenly Cor’s reluctance to go anywhere her or her people made all the sense in the world. 

“We’re not Crownsguard anymore, girl,” she said, staring down Aulea from the comfort of a wooden garden chair. “We serve the people, not the King.” 

“Nobody said anything about the Crownsguard, granny,” Aulea replied, utterly unfazed, “and that’s exactly what the Queensglaive does. You have the numbers, I have the resources, can we move on from the cock posturing and start drafting terms already?” 

Ezma opened her eyes fully, pinning the Queen under a stern glare that made Nyx consciously resist the urge to shudder. 

“No.” 

Aulea snorted, exasperated. 

* * *

It worked out better than Nyx thought it would. 

Sure, he ended up catching a knife with his right hand, because he’d been tasked with keeping every last hair of Prompto’s dumb blond head unharmed, and the kid had like a supernatural ability to find himself standing in the middle of brawls, plural. Sure, that had immediately caused him to shift on reflex, and the fact no one had died was equal parts miracle and Aulea’s magic. Sure, that had only made the hunters all the more recalcitrant in their demands considering they hated magic, coeurls and magic coeurls above all else, apparently. 

Sure. 

But by Tuesday, Prompto was driving them back across the bridge into Insomnia, Aulea had bullied Ezma into a stalemate of tentative cooperation and Nyx’s wound had stopped bleeding at the smallest provocation and leaving dramatic trails everywhere. 

So there was that. 

“What happened?” Cor asked, as Nyx gave up pretenses and faceplanted straight into the nest of furs Cor insisted on calling a bed, because the ridiculous idiot had a personal vendetta against furniture. “Nyx,” he added, ghost of something other than the eternal deadpan itching at the edge of his tone, when Nyx didn’t immediately answer him. 

“I don’t know,” Nyx muttered after a moment, rolling onto his back and braving the might of Cor’s scowl. “I was right there, and I still don’t know what the hell was that.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I just know we agreed to serve a madwoman.” 

Cor stared down at him, blinked, and then laughed under his breath. Nyx tried to cling to his annoyance rather than bask on the sound – it occurred to him Cor very rarely laughed like that, soft and amused and utterly toothless – but gave up and offered his hand with a sigh, when Cor tugged at it. 

“I felt the same,” Cor confessed with a little wry smirk as he slowly unwrapped the bandages on Nyx’s hand, “the first time I met Regis.” 

Nyx winced and then sighed as Cor held his hand between his own and closed his eyes, concentrating until a faint green glow gathered all over Nyx’s palm and spread out soothingly up his wrist. 

“Was that supposed to be reassuring?” Nyx asked, eyes half-lidded without noticing, as he felt the wound slowly close under Cor’s magic, “or just a plea for resignation?” 

Cor snickered as he opened his hands and studied his handiwork, tracing his fingers along Nyx’s palm in a godawfully unfair way, the bastard. 

“Both,” he said, eyes glinting with amusement, “both is good, I reckon.” 

Nyx considered the very real and by then well-worn temptation of tugging on Cor’s hold and topple him into his arms and then resigned himself to another cold shower in the near future instead. 

“So!” He said, while Cor remained blissfully unaware of the sheer knot of stupid stuck between Nyx’s ears, “how was your weekend?” 

Cor stopped smiling and instead let out a bone-deep sigh. 

“I miss Axis,” he confessed, with the gravitas such a statement demanded. 

Nyx felt like an asshole, because he laughed. 


	3. Day 3 "I think that shirt looks better on you than it does on me." | Feral

Cor stared morosely at the halo of clothes scattered on the floor, like a snapshot of a fashion crime scene he’d been tasked to solve. Except not. Nyx buried his laughter into his mug of tea – he had a mug, all his own, it was dark blue with flecks of grey and purple, and he hadn’t bought it but Cor stopped using it after Nyx used it three times in a row, ignoring the pile of mugs in the cabinet under the sink, so by holy laws of Nyx being too damn smart to point it out, it was obviously now his – and indulged in the wholly meanspirited chance to admire Cor trying – and failing – to not give into a tantrum. 

“I mean,” Nyx said, after a moment, taking pity on him, “you like wearing layers, right? I’ve seen your closet, Cor-“ 

“I don’t _have_ a closet.” 

“-and it’s full of t-shirts in sets of three,” Nyx went on, willfully ignoring the interruption. “This is just… a different configuration of layers.” 

“This has buttons,” Cor pointed out, utterly petulant, as if buttons were the greatest horror in the world as far as he was concerned. “And zippers.” 

Nyx shrugged. 

“I like the boots.” 

“You don’t furspl-“ Cor snapped back, realized what he was about to say, and then flushed and looked away sharply, all at once. 

Nyx didn’t laugh, but only just. 

“I guess that means your tenure as living playground is over, then!” Nyx said, conciliatory. “I mean, who knows! You might find it comfy.” 

“I notice you’re not wearing yours,” Cor deadpanned, utterly unconvinced. 

“I’m not the boss,” Nyx pointed out, nodding at his clothes, neatly folded atop the counter, “I don’t get fancy dangly bits, so mine’s just pants and a shirt. A jacket, too. And the boots. Which I really like.” Nyx tilted his head to the side. “Give it a try, it’s not that bad.” 

“Leather pants, Nyx,” Cor insisted, tone just the barest touch whiny. 

“Leather pants are awesome,” Nyx said solemnly, and then laughed at the withering glare he got for his efforts. “…once you break them in. But you have to wear them to break them in.” 

Cor let out a very loud sigh, shoulders slumping somewhat. 

“Fine,” he said, and then began to undress with small, jerky motions that telegraphed perfectly how unhappy he was at the prospect. 

Nyx reckoned he was getting better about being an absolute creep, because he managed to spectate the whole ordeal without feeling too bad about it, and by the time Cor was glowering at the row of buttons in the jacket – it had a zipper and buttons, so clearly it was the most evil piece of clothing in the whole wide world – he found himself wholly amused and not at all under the pressing urge to excuse himself and take a cold shower. 

So, then, progress. 

“I think that shirt looks better on you than it does on me,” Nyx offered, sounding as sincere as he could manage, which was a fair bit, to be honest. 

Cor looked good in uniform. Really good. 

So maybe Nyx would be taking that cold shower after all. 

Cor sighed again. 

“Can I take it off now?” 

Nyx took a moment to gauge the level of misery slumping Cor’s shoulders and made an executive decision to be a terrible person. More overtly terrible than usual, anyway. 

“No,” he said, and grinned at the long suffering look Cor gave him, “gotta break it in, remember?” 

Cor sighed again. 

* * *

“Oh,” Titus said, when he saw them on their next training session. 

Unless they were out in the field, Cor scrupulously made sure to keep his standing appointment with Titus in the Crownsguard training room every Thursday. Nyx remembered, almost wistfully, when they used to spend those two hours rolling around against each other. Now, with Titus at the helm, they were tasked with drills and given scathing commentary on their spars. And the cane. Dear gods, the cane was evil. Nyx wondered if Cor had nightmares about the cane. He certainly did. 

“What,” Cor snapped back, still sullen and clearly uncomfortable as he stood there, in his brand new uniform, sans jacket. 

Leather, Cor had confided on Nyx, chafed. Nyx was still impressed with himself and his own capacity for aplomb, because he’d managed not to throw himself into the lake outside the cabin, in the wake of that revelation. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Titus replied, leaning on the cane with a frown on his face, “I didn’t expect her to listen.” 

“She?” Cor asked, suddenly terse. 

“Au-The Queen,” Titus said, shaking his head. “About the uniforms. I didn’t expect her to listen.” 

Nyx had the sudden notion that, for once in their lives, he might end up being the one needing to sit on Cor, to keep him from doing something unwise. 

“ _Traitor_ ,” Cor said after a moment, back to sulking for all he was worth. 

It made Titus laugh. 

“Ha! Catching on with the program, are you?” He said, neatly sidestepping back into his usual stern arrogance. “We’ll make a proper soldier out of you, yet, Mutt.” 

Nyx doubted it, honestly, but he knew better than to say so out loud. 

* * *

“Consider it an incentive,” Nyx said, eyebrows arched in amusement as he watched Cor bury his nose into the bundle of clothes in his arms and inhale over and over again, “to not fursplode while wearing those.” 

It wasn’t a big deal, really. He didn’t have a nose to rival Cor’s, sure, but he’d had a hunch. After all, his mother used to do the same for him and his sister, mixing a hint of lavender oil along the soap. All he’d done was track down some tea tree oil and attempted to replicate the effect. It was faint enough he’d almost thought it hadn’t worked at all. 

“It was my turn to do laundry, anyway,” Nyx added, shrugging under the weight of Cor’s stare. 

“How?” Cor asked, blinking and more than a little awed. 

That, awe, that did Nyx’s ego good. 

“Magic,” he replied, and wiggled his fingers for effect. 

Cor laughed, then, and Nyx reckon he wasn’t that far off the mark after all. 


	4. Day 4 Scars

Most of the time, Cor slept outside. 

He liked lying on the grass, stretched out as long as he was, and to melt into a puddle of fur the size of a small lake. Nyx understood and respected this, and never ever said anything to argue against it – except those freezing winter months when Cor would sleep outside, in the snow, and Nyx felt entitled to nag because just looking at him made his toes freeze over and threaten to fall off – because Nyx was keenly aware that there were already far too many people in the world who tried to tell Cor what he could and couldn’t do. It made Cor happy, and that was enough. 

But there were nights – few and far between, and all the more treasured because of it – when Cor shuffled under the pile of furs with him, and it was just like it had been, back then, when Nyx was still living in the Citadel and Cor squirmed his way into his bed, and he endured no sleep and sweet torture all night. Nyx had a theory that nightmares were to blame. Cor had them, certainly. Given the life he’d lived – the life Nyx was ever so slowly piecing together, one stray comment at the time, carefully hoarded whenever Cor felt like sharing, like grains falling through an hourglass – Nyx would have been very surprised, if he didn’t. 

Those magical nights when Cor crawled into Nyx’s arms and curled up against his side, Nyx spent them listening to Cor breathe against his throat, fingers trailing absently over his spine. 

It was haunting, really, every time his fingers stumbled on a new scar – and Cor had many, many scars, scattered like stars on a night sky, all over his body, almost indiscriminately – because Nyx knew how old Cor had been, when he became what he was. He didn’t know how it happened, and talking about it, tentatively as they had, had upset Cor enough Nyx decided he didn’t need to know after all. It was a very delicate balance he walked inside his head, feeling the ridges and bumps and even that dip, dangerously close to his hip, where a chunk of flesh had been gauged out as if to make space for Nyx’s thumb. 

Because Cor was nigh indestructible, now. 

He’d proved it, when he’d stood between the King and his own magic, and somehow managed not to implode on the spot. He’d proved it, again and again, in the hours of video Pelna had taken over the years, of coeurls playing with him and leaving him at worst mildly puffy, with shocks that were more than enough to kill most things. He was strong, now. Durable. Nothing could hurt him enough to leave scars, because he melted into magic at will. 

So all those scars, all those bumps and ridges and dips… all those scars were from before. 

And Nyx knew how old Cor had been, then. 

But Nyx didn’t think about that, lest he gave into a rage he would never be able to crawl back out of, because he would never be able to satisfy it. Those who had left their mark on Cor’s skin were dead or gone, or both. Their sole claim to relevancy was precisely the lines they had painted on Cor’s back, distorted now that he wasn’t what he’d been, skin stretched taunt over a frame significantly bigger than his old one. Nyx kept his mind carefully blank, and instead indulged the cycle of self-destructive almost rage and nothingness, because the alternative was to fully embrace the fact Cor was there, right there, and then who knew what Nyx would do. 

Could do. 

Come morning, he’d make tea. Put it to boil and wait for Cor to be done in the bathroom so he could go in and take the mother of all cold showers, as if that could somehow erase the insidious, terrible thought curled in the back of his mind. He’d serve breakfast and Cor would read the highlights of the paper, and both would pretend not to hear Clarus outside, leaving his offering on the steps and never staying long enough to be offered tea. Come morning, he’d have his routine and his place in the world and the certainty all would be as it should. 

But morning was far off, yet, and Cor’s breathing was slow and steady, rhythmic promise pressed against the small indent between Nyx’s collarbones. Cor was warm and solid and there, and Nyx kept himself from giving into the futile anger at everything and everyone that had ever contributed to the scars Cor carried with him – on his skin or on his soul – by imagining a world where come morning, he wouldn’t have to let him go. He knew better, he did. He knew what the boundaries were, what Cor wanted and needed and definitely had never asked for. He knew. 

But he was only human, and there were storm clouds in the horizon. Nothing made Nyx quite as self-destructive as nostalgia, he supposed, nails scratching the nape of Cor’s neck because it never failed to make him relax even further into sleep. He was tired, Nyx reckoned. There was nothing foul in letting Cor sleep a little longer. A little deeper. 

Lulled by the sound of early morning rain, smothered in Cor’s heat, Nyx clutched him close and mused about more than a few scars of his own. 


	5. Day 5 Family | Fake Relationship

“Out with it,” Aulea said abruptly, startling Cor enough he nearly dropped the mug of tea in his hands. He looked up just in time to see her roll her eyes. “Out with it, Puppy. Whatever’s eating you. I can take it.” 

She said that a lot. She also insisted on immortalizing Crowe’s goddamn nickname, which, much to Cor’s horror, had stopped chaffing and started pulsing with something almost like fond warmth, whenever he was called by it. It reminded him of Crowe, who was brave and smart and _vivacious_. Cor had never met anyone who fit that word, for all it had been one of the oldest words he’d ever learned – Mors used to describe Ezma that way, always very far away from where Ezma might hear, and when he’d explained to Cor the meaning of the word, Cor had very quickly determined there was some sarcasm afoot, because Ezma Auburnbrie was many things, but _vivacious_ was not one of them – until he met Crowe. 

He thought of her far more often than he was willing to admit, just as he thought of Libertus and Pelna and Axis. But it was novel, thinking of people who were gone but not _gone_. They were out there, in the world. Living lives that didn’t revolve around Cor and – hopefully – chasing after their own definition of happiness. Cor hoped they were happy. Hoped with the fierceness he’d once hoped to fall asleep and never wake up again. They were good people, his mad, reckless shifters, who played cards and dice and had given him a place to exist where it didn’t hurt to exist exactly as he was. He hoped they were happy, and the certainty they were out there, somewhere, made the world seem a little brighter, when he remembered it. Because they had gone, but… but they weren’t _gone_. One day… one day he might even find his way back to them. Or them to him. So long as they were alive, so long as they had parted in good terms, with smiles and well wishes and nothing sour or bitter stuck in their mouths… then maybe one day they’d find themselves sitting together around the fire again. 

Life was weird like that. 

Cor stared down at Aulea – but did not even attempt to stare her down, and that was a fine nuance of grammar he’d never understood so well until he met Regis’ mythical Queen in the flesh – and blinked. 

“What?” He asked, vaguely bemused by the sudden inquiry, but not really upset about it, because most of his time with her was spent in varying degrees of bemusement and he was building up a steady resistance to it. 

“You have that squinty look on your face,” Aulea replied, eyebrows arched, “the one you get when you’re trying to figure out how to ask a question when you don’t know if you’re allowed to ask it in the first place.” She snorted. “I’m telling you point blank you are, so out with it. What is it this time?” 

Cor blinked twice, and then shrugged. 

“How do you know?” He asked, well-versed in dealing with her to know better than to apologize or argue her assessment. “When we should go back, I mean. How do you know?” 

The truly terrifying thing about Aulea Lucis Caelum was her tendency to be right, whenever she spoke out loud all those things people were trying their hardest to leave unsaid. Cor trailed after her, because she insisted she was going to make a proper officer out of him yet, whatever she meant by that, and that meant he had front row seats most of the time. It reminded him uncomfortably of Mors, the way he used to blurt out truths at people for the sake of bullying them into doing things his way, if only to make him shut up. At least, that’s how Lucius had explained it to him. Mors had never really done that to him, Cor reckoned, because his one truth – that he was a monstrous thing fit only for murder and violence and worse – was such a cornerstone of their relationship that it didn’t even need to be brought up. 

For Aulea, though, it meant… it meant _people stopped lying_. 

Cor knew, he could smell it. He could smell the putrid aftertaste fade more and more each day. There was nothing to be gained with lies, when it came to Aulea, and steadily people seemed to reach that conclusion with varying degrees of resignation. If nothing else, Cor would have served her willingly, just for that. 

Mostly, he let himself bask in the fact he had no choice but to serve, because at least that meant he didn’t have to think about it in great detail. It just was the way things were, that was all. 

“Oh,” Aulea replied, blinking back at him and then shrugging. “Whenever I feel like getting laid, mostly.” 

Cor stared. 

“What?” 

Aulea stared right back. 

“It’s perfectly normal, Puppy,” she said, waving a hand dismissively, “and believe me, Regis isn’t complaining. Bottomline, follow your gut. Your gut knows what’s up, it’s usually your brain that makes everything complicated.” When she realized Cor was still staring, rather than nod along this nugget of valuable wisdom, Aulea rolled her eyes. “Well, what do you do when _you_ want to get laid? Go to Nyx, right?” 

Cor stare became, somehow, even blanker. 

“No?” 

Aulea frowned. 

“What do you mean _no_?” 

Cor shrugged in the face of her outrage. 

“I haven’t had sex in months now,” he pointed out, head tilted to the side, “and I’ve never had sex with Nyx.” 

“What the fuck,” Aulea demanded in a terribly serene tone, “why the hell not?” 

Cor shrugged again, utterly lost. 

“Because Nyx doesn’t want to have sex with me?” 

He wasn’t sure why that was a question, given that he knew it for a fact. But the way she was looking at him made him doubt _everything_. 

Aulea opened her mouth to say something, but for the first time since he’d met her, Cor saw her actually stop and reconsider, in real time. Then she closed her mouth and shook her head. 

“Follow your gut, Puppy,” she insisted, rubbing a hand over her face and seemingly trying to hold back a laugh, “your gut knows what’s up.” 

Cor pondered the value in arguing that he’d much rather follow his nose, but then decided it was probably not worth the inevitable lecturing. He was so, so tired of being lectured, as it was. 

“Okay.” 

* * *

Noct was good kid. 

Nyx liked him, unamused, sullen menace that he was, mostly because when all was said and done, the poor kid didn’t have a single meanspirited bone in his body. And Nyx knew his parents, now, so that was actually remarkable. The young Prince was still trying to find his place in Insomnia, to navigate his relationship with his father and sort of stay out of the splash zone that naturally followed his mother, and… well, if he needed somewhere quiet to escape the utter nonsense that was Insomnia as a whole and maybe fish a little? Nyx certainly wasn’t going to tell him no. 

So every now and then Nyx found himself sitting by the lake, watching the boy reel in their dinner and occasionally chatting about nothing in particular. Sometimes Cor was there, and then they both sat back against his side while he took a nap, and… well. It was nice. Peaceful, even. It was a very good distraction from the chaos and disaster that was the Queensglaive, and if Nyx needed to grouse about the shit Tredd and Luche and the others put him through, Noct was at least sympathetic if not outright willing to share select blackmail material so Nyx could at least make an effort to defend himself. 

“So, Titus,” Noct said one of those lazy afternoons, frowning intently at the little popper lure far in the distance and very carefully not looking at Nyx. “You’ve… you’ve known him a while, now, right?” 

“I guess?” Nyx replied, blinking, “couple years now, yeah.” 

He didn’t ask, because the crucial thing with Noct – which reminded him of Cor, that – was that he tended to turtle right up, if one asked too many questions. It was best to let him figure out things on his own, at his own pace. Sure enough, Noct went quiet for a long while, lips twitching as he sorted out his thoughts. 

“Do you like him?” Noct asked finally, just as the lure snagged on something, hopefully something delicious, and Noct stood up to reel it back. “Not like… Cor, I mean. Just. Generally. Y’know. Is he… okay?” 

“I mean, he’s a miserably cranky asshole,” Nyx replied sincerely, grinning when Noct choked on a snort, and neatly sidestepped the whole gaping maw that was contemplating how much he liked Cor, exactly, and how abysmally Titus compared in that regard. “And he’s a menace with the fucking cane, too. But, overall? Yeah, he’s decent enough. Way too Lucian, though. If you know what I mean.” 

“Mmm,” Noct said, and then went quiet as he focused on landing his catch. 

Nyx watched him go through the process of untangling the fish from the lure and settling it aside in the little icebox he brought along for that explicit purpose. Once he was done catching enough for dinner, Nyx knew, he’d clean them and set them up for Nyx to prepare, all on his own. He seemed to enjoy it, though, and Nyx knew he was more than knowledgeable about it, so he didn’t offer to help. 

The silence lingered on for two more fish, and it had an edge of expectation to it, like Noct was building up to say something but needed to weigh it properly in his head before he did. 

And then. 

“He’s fucking my parents.” 

Laconic, almost. Mostly toneless, too. 

Also right as Nyx had just reached out for the half melted iced coffee in the chirpy plastic bottle by his knee, which he immediately inhaled up his nose despite having been in the process of drinking with a straw. He crushed the cup in his hand while he choked and tried not to die. 

“Ah-hah,” Noct hummed, shrugging. 

“Sorry,” Nyx croaked, “just. Surprised.” He swallowed hard. “Are you okay?” 

Noct made a production of shrugging. 

“He’s fucking my parents, not me,” he said, fastidiously unwinding the fishing line from the lure, and did not meet Nyx’s eyes. “So what do I care, right?” 

“They _are_ your parents,” Nyx pointed out, hopefully soothingly, but given his throat was still burning, it was a shot in the dark. 

“I mean, so long as I’m not expected to call him, like, Pops,” Noct said with yet another shrug, which frankly made Nyx feel the urge to reach out and hold his shoulders to make him sit still. “Or something.” 

Nyx swallowed back a not wholly unhysterical laugh. 

“I think Titus might literally die if you do,” he said, one eyebrow arched. 

Noct looked at him for a moment, solemn and serious, and then cracked into quiet, wheezing laughter. 

“Good thing I won’t, then,” he said wryly. “It’s just… y’know.” 

“Yeah.” Nyx nodded. “But hey, as long as they’re happy, right?” 

“Probably, I guess,” Noct sighed, and then shook his head. “You and Cor don’t have any surprises like that for me, right? I mean, now’s the time to tell me, I guess, since I’m rearranging the family tree in my head already and all.” 

Nyx very carefully did not splutter. 

Or think about dice. 

Or acknowledged the fact the boy was willing to call them kin so easily. 

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask Cor?” He said, rather than any of the terrible things he could. 

Noct snorted loudly. 

“Because he’d actually _tell me_.” 

Nyx laughed and threw an arm around the bony shoulders, tugging Noct into a side hug. 

“C’mon, Little Swallow,” Nyx snorted, reaching a hand to ruffle Noct’s hair just because he knew how much it annoyed the kid when he did. “It’s late and dinner won’t cook itself.” 

By the time Cor got home from his monthly tea run, they had moved on to talk about other, far less dire subjects, like speculating about Clarus’ reaction to the news. 


	6. Day 6 “I’m too old for this.”

“Shut your entire mouth,” Titus hissed at him, the moment he saw him. 

Cor blinked slowly and then shrugged, very pointedly saying nothing. Then he choked on a laugh as he dodged a swipe of the cane, because apparently that was not good enough for Titus. 

“Congratulations,” Cor murmured, sincerely because he meant it, but also trying very hard to bite down on the snort stubbornly clinging to the back of his throat, because he had a working sense of self-preservation. 

“Offer me condolences instead,” Titus bit back, twitchy. “I must have lost my mind.” Then he realized Cor was not laughing anymore, and he sighed, put upon, and shook his head. “Thank you.” 

“If you don’t want to do it,” Cor said, slow and careful, as if approaching a nest of sleeping midgardsormrs, “perhaps you should tell them.” 

Titus gave him that look he did sometimes, when Cor unwittingly tripped over some kind of law of polite society and he didn’t know where to start to address it. In general, Cor didn’t particularly care if he happened to fuck up the rules of engagement. Mostly because he didn’t engage much in the first place. And honestly, he’d dealt with Clarus far too many times by then, to be fazed by anyone’s comments on the subject of his manners. The people commenting were people he didn’t love nearly as much as he loved Clarus, so clearly, they didn’t matter. 

Titus was different, though, and Cor wasn’t sure how to explain it. Because Titus didn’t lecture him or tell him what he should be doing instead. Titus just… complained, but without any expectation of that complaint having any significant impact on how Cor carried himself. It was… surprisingly comfortable. With an edge of something Cor thought might finally clarify to him, the notion of what exactly an inside joke was. 

“We’re not having this conversation,” Titus declared, leaning on his cane and looking put out. 

Cor blinked and then shrugged. 

“Okay,” he said, more than happy to not go into it. 

“Good,” Titus sighed, “because there’s nothing to be said, anyway.” 

“Right,” Cor agreed, expectant, because he rarely took the lead in a conversation, and instead waited for whoever was talking to him to set the tone. 

Except there was that thing, with Titus trying consciously to not hunch over, hand holding tightly onto his cane, and he looked very composed right there and then, except for the bit Cor could smell how unsettled he really was. It was… it was weird, for Titus to be unsettled. He was always sure of himself and his place in the world, and Cor liked that about him. So this was… strange, and unexpected, and he didn’t know what to do about it. 

If Nyx were there, he reckoned, he’d make a joke to crack the tension, but he wasn’t, and Cor was patently bad at jokes anyway. 

“Would you like to get drunk?” Cor ventured, head tilted to the side. “Isn’t that supposed to help?” 

Titus spluttered. 

“What? No, it’s the middle of the day,” he snarled. “I can’t just go get drunk.” 

Cor frowned, keenly aware Titus hadn’t actually answered the question. 

“Why not?” He asked, head tilted to the side. 

“Because I’m too old for this,” Titus insisted, “and that’s just fucking _juvenile_.” 

“Oh,” Cor said, blinking, and then nodded slowly. 

Titus knew what he was talking about, probably- 

“Ask me again after lunch,” Titus said, very carefully not looking at him. 

Cor didn’t snicker, primarily because Titus knew how to wield that cane hard enough it bruised. 

* * *

“Oh, don’t whine at me,” Nyx muttered, tugging Cor steadily away from the warmth that was lovingly soothing his pounding headache. “It’s your fault my bed is full of Titus.” 

“It’s not a bed,” Cor muttered sullenly, rubbing a hand on his face, “and it’s big enough for three.” 

Nyx choked on his retort and then pulled Cor more insistently towards the door. 

“I’m not jumping in bed with Titus fucking Drautos,” Nyx hissed, ignoring the mountain of drunken ex-General blissfully passed out right smack in the middle of the cabin. 

“Why not?” Cor blinked as he stepped out of the cabin, shivering at the sudden drop of temperature now that he didn’t have Titus acting as a living furnace by his side. 

Nyx opened his mouth and then seemed to think better of whatever he wanted to say, because he sighed. 

“I’ll tell you when you’re not hungover,” he offered instead, shaking his head. 

Cor gave him a long suffering look, but Nyx didn’t look about to budge. Cor sighed loudly, and started down the steps slowly, steadily, ignoring the fact everything was slightly off tilt, as he pulled his shirt above his head. 

“What,” he asked, when he realized Nyx was staring. He looked down at his feet as he fussed with his pants. “I like this shirt.” 

“All three of them, yes?” Nyx teased, and then snickered when Cor threw his clothes at him. 

He folded them up while Cor unfurled into fur and left them by the stairs. Cor stretched slowly before he shook himself vigorously, seemed to upset his balance, and made a low whining sound in the back of his throat as he collapsed on the grass with a huff. Nyx chuckled and reached a hand to pat his snout as he curled around him, and purposely ignored Cor flicking his ears at him as he found his spot to sleep in. 

It occurred to Nyx, once he was using one of Cor’s elbows as a makeshift, albeit very comfortable pillow, that he didn’t feel rude or entitled for dragging Cor outside to essentially serve as his bed, considering he wasn’t suicidal enough to throw Titus out of his usual resting place. And Cor didn’t really seem to mind, either, perfectly willing to move aside and let Nyx carve out space for himself in their shared life. It reminded Nyx of the way he used to bully Libertus around, back home, before coming into Insomnia. He fell asleep waiting to feel bad about it, about imposing and taking up space and time and dragging Cor along for the ride. 

In the morning, Nyx woke up well rested and felt magnanimous enough to offer a supremely hung over Titus an olive branch, and breakfast. 


	7. Day 7 Cor is Actually Immortal

When Nyx came back to himself, Cor was smothering him into the ground with his head, the way he always did when Nyx lost his temper in that very specific way that meant something or someone was going to be very dead if Cor didn’t intervene immediately. 

“Took your time, there, didn’t you?” 

It took a moment for Nyx to recognize the voice, not helped by Cor growling low in the back of his throat, reproachingly. Then Nyx did place the voice and he let out a groan of his own. Dave Auburnbrie. Of course. That was what the already abysmal day needed, surely, a grumpy, taciturn hunter who had his mind set to be annoyed at everything Aulea or the rest of the Queensglaive did, because he’d already made up his mind about Aulea and the rest of the Queensglaive. 

…well, alright, he wasn’t half bad – he was a lot more personable than the bulk of the hunters Nyx had dealt with so far, who definitely took their cues from their boss, who happened to think anything even tangentially related to either the Lucis Caelum or magic in general was terrible, just on principle. Nyx was almost sure he’d seen him smile wryly at a joke at least once. Probably. 

“I’m afraid to ask,” Nyx said, in lieu of anything more inflammatory, carefully not looking at Dave as Cor pressed the side of his snout against Nyx’s face, the way he always did when Nyx’s shifts were unexpected and caught him by surprise. 

“They tried to shoot the Queen,” Dave said bluntly, shrugging, and then he nodded at Cor. “He got in the way.” 

Nyx closed his eyes, let out a slow breath, and then reached out and yanked on one of Cor’s whiskers. They were shorter and a lot less sparkier than his own, but he was trying to make a point. Cor’s pained yelp confirmed said point had landed. 

“I remember now,” Nyx said, giving Cor an annoyed look as he ducked his head and flattened his ears against his skull. “What in the _fuck_ , Cor?” 

Cor whined and ducked further, seemingly intent to press himself into the ground, and that only made Nyx snarl and feel the ghost of the coeurl’s fury start rising to the surface again. 

“Nyx,” Dave said, somewhere between warning and concern. 

Nyx let out a breath, slow and steady and clearly through clenched teeth. 

“Right,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear the fog in it, and turned to face Dave with only another sharp tug at a whisker to let Cor know he was only dropping the subject under duress. “Where’s everyone?” 

Dave gave him the long suffering look again, like Nyx was just rubbing salt on a wound for the sake of being spiteful. Which, admittedly, he was perfectly capable of, but as previously established, Dave was sort of one of the few hunters Nyx didn’t try to annoy just because he was bored. 

“Lestallum, probably,” Dave replied, shrugging. “You kept not turning back, and supplies were running low.” 

“And yet,” Nyx said, valiantly ignoring the way Cor’s goddamn wet nose was pressing against his arm as a sort of token of good will, “here you are.” 

“And yet,” Dave sighed, “here we are. I figured it’d be rude to leave you behind,” he added with a resigned little shrug. “Hunters, y’know, we don’t leave our own folk behind.” 

“Galahdians don’t, either,” Nyx replied, giving in and shoving Cor’s muzzle with a snort. “So hey, the one thing we have in common.” 

Dave kept staring at him, but Nyx had a feeling it had little to do with Cor settling in by his side, monstrous body half curled around him, with that contrite body language of his that he knew was viscerally effective in that shape. Like Nyx was trying to be something he couldn’t possibly be, in accordance to Dave’s conception of the world: a decent sort of person. Nyx felt sorry for him, because he’d been there before. There had been a time, where he’d be glad to discover Cor or Titus were as stuck up and stupid as his own internal conception of mainlanders said they should be, but they kept not being that. At least, Nyx hadn’t felt almost contractually obligated to hate them, so discovering they were, in fact, personable and actually the sort of people he wouldn’t mind calling friends, now, it hadn’t been a big deal. 

Dave kept looking at him like he was personally destroying his worldview, every now and then, and if Nyx had been any other sort of person, other than himself, he might have asked why. But he didn’t, because it didn’t matter. Dave’s worldview did not account for people like him, the dead carried on by ancient magic, to be personable and funny and the likes one enjoyed spending time with. And that wasn’t Nyx’s problem, that was solely Dave’s. So Dave could either get his head out of his ass about it, or collapsed into confusion, and Nyx wouldn’t care anyway. He wouldn’t. 

And he wasn’t being bitter or ruthless just because he was still digesting how he felt about Cor’s stupid need to prove how goddamn indestructible he was, by stepping between people and bullets. Even if the people he saved happened to be people Nyx liked or at least didn’t viscerally disliked. 

“That’s an island, isn’t it?” Dave asked, after the moment passed, almost tentative, “North of Insomnia, right?” 

“Islands, in plural, yeah,” Nyx replied, as he finally gave up and scratched the short fur right where Cor’s snout melted into his face, and the stupid git whined at him again. “That’s Galahd.” 

“Folk here don’t know much, about Galahd,” Dave said, with the air of someone not pointing out the blatant truth, “makes them uneasy, with the… magic thing.” 

It reminded Nyx of his first meeting with the King, years back now, when he’d asked him to show Lucians the Galahdian way to do things. It occurred to Nyx that was exactly what he’d ended up doing, though if someone had told him then, what his life would be now, he would have laughed. Or turned. Or both. 

“I get it,” Nyx said, sighing as he offered a small shrug. “And there’s also the difference between knowing something, and really knee-jerk knowing something, right?” He patted Cor’s nose. “Like, I know he can’t die from being shot, because we still don’t know anything that could actually kill him, immortal pain in the ass he is.” Nyx laughed when Cor nudged him hard enough it nearly toppled him off his feet and stuck out his tongue in retaliation. “But then he goes and gets shot, and there’s a split second where I don’t know that he’s going to just shrug it off and… well. The coeurl happens.” 

“The coeurl happens, he says,” Dave muttered, a little pink dusted all over his face as he looked away, “like it wasn’t the most terrifying thing in the world.” 

Nyx laughed again and waved his arm in a sweeping motion, like the prelude to a bow. 

“Living avatar of divine judgment,” he said, “it _is_ supposed to be pants-shittingly terrifying when they come for you.” 

Dave noticed the slip before Nyx did, and it made him stare at him with that same considering look of his that Nyx would be so happy to never be subject to again. 

“Anyway!” Nyx said, refusing to acknowledge it, and reached out a hand to Dave, who took it before realizing what was happening, “c’mon. The least thing Cor can do is give us a ride back to Lestallum.” 

“Wait, _what_.” 

Yeah, Nyx decided, feeling Dave cling to his back desperately as Cor stood up to full height, trying his best not to shriek when Cor started running. 

Dave was alright. 


	8. Day 8 Nyx brings home a very dangerous and injured animal

“So what happened to him?” Cor asked, sitting on the steps next to Nyx as they stared at the coeurl casually sunbathing at the other end of the lake. 

Cor hadn’t really known the man very well, to be honest. Aulea once told him he had been a survivor of her predecessor, sort of an adviser who stuck around because he had opinions and Aulea actually listened to some of them. He’d been old and kind in that playful way Galahdians were, when they were messing with someone. Cor still mostly kept to himself, and Nyx, because for all Aulea’s coeurls were Galahdian… they weren’t his Galahdians. It made sense in his head, only barely, but it was enough. 

And now there he was, stretched out enjoying the early morning sun, and Cor couldn’t for the life of him remember his name. 

“His time ran out,” Nyx said, staring at his mug in his hands and not looking at Cor. “One day we turn, and we do not turn back. We stop, but the coeurl goes on, forever.” 

“Oh,” Cor said, and did not ask if that could happen to Nyx, too. 

“I guess you could say, we’re as immortal as you are, in a way,” Nyx said, licking his lips. “But not really. Back home, back in Galahd, they just… walk back into the jungle, until they’re needed again. But here… Aulea didn’t know what to do with him, so I offered to take him in. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, it’s just… it’s nice here.” 

Cor tried to decide if it was worse than dying, living on that way, but he couldn’t quite make up his mind. He tried not to think about death, in general, his own or that of people he cared for. His own mortality was a nebulous concept at best, given the fact he’d seemed to ran out of chances to die a long time ago, and now all he could do was… go on existing, seemingly forever. Day in and day out, the specifics didn’t matter nearly as much as the certainty that he was steadily remaining the same, while everyone else didn’t. People changed and aged and became all sorts of different versions of themselves, using up their time until they just… weren’t around anymore. But he was still there. Even after Mors was gone, he’d remained. He didn’t like to think about it, but he knew he would remain, even after Regis died. Perhaps even after Noctis died. 

Cor tugged Nyx until he was leaning against his chest and Cor could hook his chin on his head, because the alternative was trying to deal with the idea of remaining, once Nyx was gone, and Cor couldn’t be arsed to torment himself that early in the morning. 

“It’s fine,” he said instead, though it didn’t feel like it. Not quite. “I reckon he likes it.” 

“Hopefully enough to a, not do a murder on you or me or Clarus or any of the dozen people who routinely come visit these days, and b, not go out the fence and do a murder on your perpetual paparazzi crowd,” Nyx pointed out, words half mumbled into Cor’s chest. “But hey, we can take our time to figure things out.” 

Despite it all, Cor laughed. So maybe it was fine after all. 

Maybe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.


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